Page 74 - ECOlogic Book

Vicente is whistling, a Spanish tune, I suppose. I listen carefully, trying to
catch the thread of the tune. It would be nice to harmonize with my own
whistling, a kind of communication with Vicente. But his tune rambles, and
doesn’t repeat. I can’t get the hang of it. Just as well. The last time I tried
to whistle, I couldn’t. One of the disabilities of old age, I presume.

Later, when we start on the squashes, I roll my sleeves down and button the
cuffs. I remember wondering last week why David was rolling his sleeves
down as we were preparing to go into the squashes, only to find out that the
prickly stems scratch your arms as you reach in to search for likely
candidates. By the time I’d finished, my arms had looked and felt as if a
nasty rash had taken told.

As we bounce along, on the way back to the farmhouse, I remember how
last week we’d picked unscheduled cucumbers, and eaten them right there
in the field, standing in the shade of the flatbed. There had been no concern
for pesticides, as everything in this community-supported garden is grown
organically. We’d eaten them as they were, skin and all, and they’d been as
refreshing as ice-water. The black border collie, who had accompanied us
wherever we want, barking pathetically if a closed gate prevented him from
following, had been thirsty too, and David had picked a cucumber for him.
We’d laughter watching the dog eat his cucumber as enthusiastically as we
had eaten ours.

Later, back at the farmhouse with the peppers and squashes – our last load
of the day – Vicente holds out the “Grande” beet to me, grinning. I can’t tell
him that I don’t like beets. “Gracias,” I mumble, “muchos gracias.”
As I get in my car, I suddenly remember the Spanish word for “good bye.”
My 64 year old memory had been unable to come up with it last week, and
I’d been reduced to calling, “bueno, bueno,” from my car window as I’d
driven off. This time, I confidently call “Adios!” as I drive away, feeling self-
conscious about having a car when I know that David and Vicente have to
depend on the invitation of others for trips to the supermarket or the post
office.

Back home, as I put our allotment away, I pull out the “Grande” beet. While
my jeans are soaking, I search in the curio cabinet for the right thing – ah,
there it is! An elegant etched crystal long-stemmed compote dish. I
arrange some of the best looking beet leaves in it, and nestle the “Grande”
beet on top of them, upside down, with its long hairy root pointing skyward.
I think Vicente and David would like it, and would think it a proper use of a
“Grande” beet. I hope so, for their kindness and simplicity have taught me
much.
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